The Ten-Year Wake

I sit in a rental car in an office parking lot in Atlanta watching for a blue Pathfinder, the car my former therapist, Randy, drives. I glance at my watch. He’s late. It’s 10:15 a.m., Friday, May 13, 2005. I stopped seeing him regularly when I moved to Michigan several years ago. Maybe he drives another car now. I decide to wait in the lobby. I present myself to the receptionist who looks aghast, telling me Randy died two days ago. Heart attack. She wasn’t expecting me since I’m no longer a regular client, she’s so sorry….

She urges me into his private office to be alone, take my time.

I slump on the familiar blue couch, bereft.

*

Ten years later, on Tuesday, May 13, 2015, I morph three time-frames together: first, back when I am his regular patient; next, when I suddenly learn about his death; and now, in my home in Michigan, on the anniversary of my grief. I keep my verb tense present because that’s what Randy is for me: always present.

*

On the couch in his office, I spy his eyeglasses and a legal pad, with a green pen clipped to it. Dregs of coffee remain in a cup, his Nike tennis shoes on the floor.

I place his glasses in my purse. A few minutes later I call a friend on my cell phone who convinces me I’m not thinking clearly, that I shouldn’t, in effect, steal Randy’s glasses. His family might want them.

I return them to the cushion. I also decide against taking his Nikes. I unclip the plastic pen from the pad of paper, claiming it instead. On it is printed: American Homecare Supply, Georgia.

On the end table is a pearl-pink West Indian conch shell I gave him as my going-away present when I left Georgia. I put it in my bag, as well.

*

The air conditioning in his office is, as always, too cold. It always will be too cold. As if he’ll always be here waiting for me to ask him to adjust the A/C forevermore.

*

Not expecting to attend a funeral, I packed nothing appropriate. I enter a boutique, about a mile from his office, dazed by the color and scent of new clothes, more alive than I myself feel. Red, lavender, yellow blouses, skirts, dresses. Nothing suitable. A clerk asks if she can help. I shake my head. I can’t speak, as if weeds clog my throat.

*

On Sunday, I stand graveside at Arlington Memorial Park surrounded by Randy’s family, friends, co-workers. No breeze ripples through the cemetery. Every rib in my chest feels frozen. A rabbi prays…words indistinguishable whether he speaks Hebrew or English. I wear a tan dress I bought in another shop. I never wear it again. For years, it remains in my closet on a hanger— limp, formless—before I donate it to the Salvation Army. The ceremony ends. I’m handed a shovel. I scoop bits of red Georgia clay onto Randy’s coffin. I don’t hear it thud wood.

*

James Baldwin writes: For the “dead their days had ended and I did not know how I would get through mine.”

*

Driving away from the cemetery, I set Randy’s pen on the seat beside me. I worry I might leave behind the Homecare, the soul-care he supplied me. How does the present-me tell the present-then me not to worry? That I will carry him with me into the future, sustain, re-create, him through words?

*

While still in Michigan, before flying to Georgia, I receive an e-mail from Randy only a few hours before he dies. I had e-mailed him first, earlier, telling him I look forward to seeing him, but am nervous, since it’s been a long time.

He writes, “I’m still here. Everything will be fine.”

*

Night descends onto the Atlanta airport. Airplane lights seem too bright. Harsh. My image reflects in the window, grayed to translucence, as if I enter the glass, a place where I won’t feel Randy’s absence. As if I am the ghost, not he.

*

Maybe I should have taken his eyeglasses. After all, he is the first person to understand me…as if, with his glasses in my possession, he will see me forever.

*

I save his e-mail: I’m still here. Everything will be fine. Ten years later, everything is, and everything isn’t.

Fresh grief is difficult to manage. Too many sensations and memories to sort while Life Goes On. Thank you for this essay, this glimpse into another grieving person’s heart. My cousin died somewhat unexpectedly three weeks ago. I did the same as you – bought a dress and shoes because I was traveling and didn’t have the right clothes with me. So much resonated for me in this piece. As always. 🙂

Rebecca, thank you so much for such a personal and heartfelt response. I’m very touched. It really takes so long to process grief…if, indeed, we ever really do fully process the death of a beloved person. Thank you for reading my essay!

I never properly thanked my therapist. She who helped me move away from pain and claim a better life. I laughed when she forgot our appointment one night and teased: you really know you are alone when the person you pay to hear your story forgets to show up. Thanks for sharing your tribute. It is lovely.

Dear Dear Sue — In a very private part of my life I search night and day with a tiny flashlight through all the words of the world — written and spoken and sung — for writers who name and honour and acknowledge the timelessness of loss, the unspeakable agony of loss. And here you are! speaking the unspeakable on this dark Tuesday morning so near to the ‘turning of the year’ towards the dark,– here you are, shining a spotlight, a spotlight. There aren’t many times when one can say ‘thank you’ to the person who has written a lifeline. Thank you thank you Sue! Eunice

Thank you, Sue, for sharing this very personal piece. I was there, in the therapyst’s office with you, wandering which memento to take. The pace and every sentence are perfect. I am overwhelmed with the depth of emotions. You are the master writer. Congratulations!

I think it’s beautiful how you tell segments of the story that occurred in ’05, ’15, and now, all at the same time. In terms of the story, it made me see the practitioner/patient relationship in a way I hadn’t really understood before. Lovely.

Emry, I’m so touched that you fully understood the intent of this essay. Thank you! That means a great deal to me. Yes, my therapist and I will always be together, in that kind of mystical and magical way!

It’s all beautiful. But gah — that final section,just stunning writing,just the right touch of sentiment. Lovely storytelling everywhere, the jumps in time seem perfectly intuitive for both reader and writer. Thanks for writing this; I think it captures how so many people feel, that scattered-ness of sudden loss that lingers. So glad I read it.

Sue, wonderful essay. I’m teaching an intro CW class and was looking for a good example of short CNF. I loved this essay and honestly (ashamedly) didn’t realize at first who the author was. I have fond memories of your talk at River Pretty a while back. Thanks for the gold. 🙂

HI, Sam, I’m delighted you like this essay and am really thrilled that you’re considering using it in your class. Thank you so much!! And, yes, River Pretty. That was a wonderful time. Good to hear from you!

Thank you more than you know. Not only is this a beautiful piece, but as a therapist and psychiatric provider for decades (as well as a writer,) I know what my patients have meant to me over time. I often wonder what role I play in their memories, as once we are done with whatever contract we had, we rarely have any contact. I will share this piece with some of my colleagues, as we deal with loss all the time, but this works with a completely different perspective.

Nina, thank you so very much for such a lovely reaction to my essay. I’m truly touched…and thank you for sharing this with your colleagues, too. Oh, really, such wonderful therapists mean everything! All these years later, I still “hear” Randy’s words and sense his presence in terms of guiding me to help me make safe and healthy decisions. I still miss him even as, in this other sense, I keep him close to me. He appears in all three of my memoirs: that’s how much he affected my life! He helped me save my life. It’s an extraordinary relationship. Again, thank you so much…and please know the amazing amount of help you offer your clients!! Your work is invaluable. (If you want to contact me, my contact info is on my website, http://www.SueWilliamSilverman.com) Sue

Dear Sue,
This piece is so beautifully written and evokes such strong emotions from the references to ordinary everyday items that contain incredible importance through their connection to a beloved person. (Personally, I think it would have been okay to take his glasses.)

HI, Tammie, thank you so much for such a lovely response! Ordinary “things” really can evoke a power all their own, can’t they! And I LOVE that you think it would have been okay to take his glasses. I still think about that. It’s hard to think straight during a time of such deep emotion. Anyway, as I say, absolutely love that you think this!! Thank you so much!

Hello Sue.
Lovely to read you again. Very poignant essay and as always your use of structure
Mirrors your story artfully. Very powerful given relationship with Randy. I’m sorry you had to discover such a loss in that way. Yet, how fortuitous you were there for funeral.
Use of eyeglasses was terrific.
Thank you.

Susan!! Hi! How lovely to see you here. Thank you for reading my essay and for writing such a lovely and meaningful response. That day is absolutely frozen in my mind. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Miss you! And, again, thank you!! Sue

So now I don’t feel so bad about not fleshing out the notes in my spirit journal yet. 10 years later is a comfortable timeline. I hope I can do justice to my family, friends and mentors the way you do here with Randy. Such a beautiful expression of someone who complemented, and maybe helped you make meaning of, your life’s path. Thank you.

Hi, Larry, right: there’s no timeline when it comes to figuring out how to approach any given piece of writing! And thank you so much for reading my essay and for such expressing such lovely feedback. That means a lot! Sue